


January, Revisited

by ottermo



Series: Fandot Creativity [13]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fandot Creativity, Fitton Farm AU, Gen, World War 2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottermo/pseuds/ottermo
Summary: Backdating my fills from the 27th Fandot Creativity Night. I got there late, but managed to squeeze in some World War II AU, some Fitton Farm, and a few of Arthur's favourite jokes.





	1. Clocks

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of the World War II/Evacuation AU to start off with...

There’s a big, round clockface above the door of Fitton Village Hall, and Martin has been staring up at the slow old hands for the last eleven minutes. He knows the number exactly, because it was three past four o’ clock when the old lady had stood in front of them, and said, quite firmly, that she only had room for two evacuees in her little cottage.

  
(At first, Martin wondered if she would take him and Simon, since it would be easier for two boys to share a room - or perhaps the lady in charge would say that he and Caitlin ought to go, as they were the youngest two and oughtn’t be split up. He had not counted on Caitlin clinging so tightly to Simon, sobbing into his jumper, simply refusing to let go. He had not counted on being the one left over.)

  
So now it is fourteen minutes past four, and he is the only one still standing in the village hall. The lady who brought them from the train station - Mrs Herlihy - keeps saying nice and kind things like, “it won’t be long now”, and “someone is sure to come along a little late”, but Martin is beginning to wonder if he will have to sleep here, all alone, curled up under one of the wooden tables with his overcoat spread out like a blanket. Why couldn’t that little old lady have taken all three of them? Hadn’t Mummy said, only this morning, that they must stay together, and look after each other? He wonders if the loud tick-tock of the clock will keep him awake if he does have to sleep here - or if the hardness of the floor will do it. He wonders if—

  
The sound of a new voice in the passageway outside the hall cuts through his imaginings.

  
“I told you we would be late, you silly boy - and here was I thinking you wanted to have someone your own age staying with us. They’ll all have gone now. I’ve never known someone so good at dilly-dallying!”

  
Footsteps lead into the hall and a lady appears, with a little boy in tow who seems just a bit younger than Martin.

  
Mrs Herlihy’s face brightens. “Hello,” she says, “You’re just in time - we’ve one little soul left. Say hello, Martin.”

  
He does so, and the other little boy bounds forward immediately and takes him by the hand. “Hello! I’m Arthur. You’re coming to live with us! Can I take your case? Did you have a long journey and did you bring a scarf with you, it’s cold outside!”

  
“Arthur,” said the boy’s mother reprovingly, “At least let him get a word in edgeways.”

  
“Sorry! I’m just so excited!”

  
Martin smiled back at Arthur, and let him take his case, shooting one last glance up at the old clock as they left the hall. Nineteen minutes past four.

  
Still plenty of time to get in words, edgeways or otherwise, before the sun set on his first day in Fitton.


	2. Seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Utilising some of the jokes I once memorised for a play. I regret nothing.

“Hey, Skip! How do you tell if a clock is hungry?”

“…um, I don’t think…”

“It’s a _joke_ , silly, I’m not actually asking.”

“Oh, right.”

“If you don’t know, you can just say–”

“I don’t know, Arthur, how _do_ you tell if a clock is hungry?”

“It goes back four seconds.”

“Ha. That’s actually quite good.”

“And why should you never trust someone with graph paper?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“They’re always plotting something. Oh, oh! And why can a pirate never finish the alphabet?”

“Go on…”

“He always gets lost at C!”

“…does this mean your joke book has been un-confiscated?”

“Oh, no, Mum’s still hiding that somewhere. But Herc got me this for Summer Christmas!”

 _“My Brilliant Bumper Book of Jokes and Riddles_. I can see why he thought of you.”


	3. Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finishing up the trio with a bit of Fitton Farm :-) 
> 
> This will probably be cross-posted to 'Tales' eventually....if it isn't already. But for now, here it is with its FCN litter-mates.

The sound of hooves thudding against the dirt track sent the chickens scuttling, clucking anxiously as the stout form of Arthur’s pony, Brilliant, trotted into view. Douglas grinned. Brilliant, though a sweet animal, was incurably dopey and did have a nasty habit of stepping on anything or anyone in the vicinity, regardless of whether or not they were in her path. The chickens probably had the right idea.

“Hi, Douglas!” called Arthur, grinning cheerfully from underneath his bright red riding cap. “The M’s fallen down!”

Douglas finished pouring out the chicken feed and ambled over to Arthur and Brilliant, frowning. “The M? Is that code for your mother somehow?”

Arthur laughed, and Brilliant threw back her head too, her lip curling up with a snickering sound that honestly made it sound like she was sharing the joke. “No!” said Arthur, patting Brilliant’s neck. “I mean the actual letter M, on the gate. It’s fallen off, so now it just says ‘Fitton Far’. I noticed it on my way in.”

“Ah!” said Douglas, understanding at last. “Well, we can’t have that. I’ll go and have a look at it after evening milking. If it’s actually rotted off, maybe we can just paint a new one on.”

“Ooh! Can I help?”

The image of Arthur armed with a pot of paint was not an altogether appealing one.

“You can certainly watch. Unless Martin will be needing a hand in the sty again? You know how those little ones run rings around him.”

Arthur giggled as he dismounted Brilliant, keeping hold of her reins once he was down, lest she wander over any unsuspecting hens. “I’ll ask him if he wants me.”

“Best take Brill back first, or she’ll turn them into ham sandwiches.”

“Hey!” Arthur protested. “She hasn’t stomped on anyone for ages. It’s not her fault she’s a bit clumsy.”

Brilliant nuzzled against Arthur’s shoulder and neck, apparently in gratitude for the defence.

“Of course not,” said Douglas, still eying the pony warily. Privately, he was very glad that he was wearing his steel toe-cap boots, just in case.


End file.
